Poetry and musings on life

THE POLISH DOCTOR

Aged twelve, she watched films on TV.
How could it be true?
What it meant to be a Jew?
Six million killed!
She watched with eyes tear filled.
Her father said, “You must see this
And pray for the dead.
It must never happen again!”

But he couldn’t explain
Why the atrocities occurred,
Not a word.
It was viewed in silence
This carnage,
The Nazi’s violence.
She was afraid it would
happen again
If the world went insane.

Aged nineteen, she walked
through a London street.
She had an appointment to meet.
The brass plate read, ‘ Doctor Kozdrak
Medical practitioner.
She pressed the door bell.
She wasn’t physically unwell.
Her beauty was of the best.
But she was depressed.

It was the doctor then who
Occupied her mind.
He was a Polish Jew,
Someone who had got left behind
then made it to England,
his family dead.
She could not have said why
She loved him.
It had something to do
With the war and the aftermath
She saw.

He proscribed anti-depressants.
She returned to his surgery
again and again captivated
by the essence of one who
despite his suffering
practiced healing.
Eventually she told him
of the love she was feeling.
He shook his head and
told her to find a new doctor instead.
A month later, on her return
It was to learn that he
had moved.